


What Do the Lonely Do at Christmas?

by TaraLaurel1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Brotherhood, Character Death, Christmas, Cocaine, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:03:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraLaurel1/pseuds/TaraLaurel1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A silent night, I know its gonna be joy to the world but its gonna be sad for me" Post-Reunion. Tragedy strikes the good doctor and things seem to be falling apart just in time for Christmas. Sherlock desperately tries to save his flatmate from himself and get his best friend back. That is, until Sherlock's own life is in danger and John must rescue him instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Severing Ties

**Author's Note:**

> TITLE: What Do the Lonely Do at Christmas?
> 
> CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter One/ Severing Ties
> 
> RATING: T (language)
> 
> A/N:Story title comes from the song "What Do the Lonely Do at Christmas" by The Emotions. Second Sherlock Christmas fic. These are coming in late, sorry. I don't know if they're any good either. Just ideas that were dancing like sugarplums in my head. This has a similar tone to the last one, but it's a bit more complex and longer. A bit more eventful – with some action too. I hope you enjoy it. Review? Yes? No? Maybe?

_"'Tis the season to be jolly_ __  
But how can I be when I have nobody  
The yuletide carol doesn't make it better  
Knowing that we won't be together"

The weary doctor shuffled up the stairs, barely lifting his heavy feet as he made his sluggish way to the flat. Upon entering, John pushed his back against the door to close it, pausing there for a moment. He was almost tempted to slump straight to the ground right there.

_No._

He wouldn't do that again. Even if this time it was out of exhaustion, last time he had done so, John had ended up a weeping mess. Somehow, Sherlock had collected him and half carried his flatmate up the steps to his room. John didn't remember that part. He only recalled waking atop his sheets, a blanket pulled over his curled frame and his cheeks stained with dry tears.

That had been months ago, after  _it_ happened.

With a grunt, the former soldier kicked off his shoes and peeled off his snow dusted coat. His mind was set on only two things: tea, and then a nice long kip before Sherlock returned from whatever case he was currently on.

Work had been, well, he couldn't think of a proper word to describe how absolutely awful and busy and chaotic it had truly been. Of course it was nothing compared to bandaging wounds and performing surgeries while in the line of fire, but it was definitely not the mundane atmosphere Sarah had once promised him.

Winter notoriously brought with it wind, snow and a plethora of patients. From the common cold to slips on ice. He had one fellow today who had fallen off a ladder while hanging Christmas lights. A woman had burnt her hand on the oven while baking Christmas cookies. A little girl tripped on some stairs while out Christmas shopping with her mother. An elderly gentleman had developed an allergic reaction to the Christmas toffee his granddaughter had bought him.

John didn't need to be the world's only consulting detective to notice the trend.

Normally, the man was quite fond of Christmas. The holiday reminded him of times when his parents actually had managed to be civil toward one another during his childhood. It was the one day Harriet and John got on decently enough. Their family didn't much in way of possessions or money, but presents didn't matter to him.

John enjoyed the holiday treats, especially when made by a certain doting landlady. He liked the lights and decorations. He even secretly would sing a carol or two when alone in the flat.

Yes, John Watson usually loved Christmas.

This year, though, that wasn't seeming to be the case.

Apart from the chaos at work, there were other things sagging the doctor's Christmas spirit.

There was  _that thing._ But John didn't like to think about  _that thing._

And then there was Harry, who had promised not a month earlier that she was off the booze, again. Not that he truly believed her this time. Two days ago he received a phone call at 3:03AM. When an obnoxiously intoxicated Harriet Watson asked him to pick her up, John had promptly hung up. It was unlike him. No matter what his sister did, John was still always there for her. Not this time.

John had just submitted to slumber's hold after a particularly draining case an hour earlier. A case that involved a man on a killing spree after his wife and child were murdered by a drunk driver. He waited in pub and club parking lots, watching and attacking those who were staggering to their cars instead of cabs. The final victim had been a woman only one year younger than Harry. They shared the same hair color and liquor preference too. It was all a little too close to home for John. The entire case, John had been secretly worried for his sister's safety. He had called and left messages and held onto some stupid small hope that she had stayed true to her word this time.

So when Harry called, barely able to speak properly and complaining that her car wouldn't start, John had said absolutely nothing before tossing the phone to the floor.

He had no idea how Harry had gotten the money for a car or why she was stupid enough to try to drive it drunk. At 3:03AM, he really didn't care.

Apparently, she did manage to get the thing to start, because at 4:17AM John received another phone call. He twisted out of the beginning of a nightmare and his sheets to reach the dropped device.

This time it wasn't Harry on the other end.

A police officer greeted him soberly and John had to remind himself that they had indeed caught the murderer before he suffered a panic attack at the sheer tone of the man's voice.

Instead, he was icily informed that his older sister had crashed her car into a phone box. No one else was injured and Harry walked away with only a dislocated shoulder and minor concussion – and short a driver's license.

At 5:07AM, John arrived at the hospital.

At 7:34AM, he returned home to find Mrs. Hudson had taken a spill on a patch of ice out by her bins while taking out her rubbish. She was calling for help when John stepped out of the cab and he immediately shoved the morning's events aside and switched into full doctor mode. He tended to his landlady and accompanied her to the hospital as she had injured her bad hip.

At 9:46AM, John walked back into the flat to find Sherlock far too casually extinguishing a small fire in the kitchen.

At 9:47AM, John walked past the blaze without saying a word and went straight up to his room, locking the door and the rest of the world out.

It was 11:06AM when a hungover Harry woke him from his third attempt at slumber to tell him, with some quite colorful language, that she blamed him for the accident as he had refused to pick her up. She then promptly vowed vehemently that she would not be speaking to him until further notice.

"Good," John had mumbled before he could catch the word on his sleep-deprived brain and tongue.

"Excuse me?" Harry had spat.

"I said, 'good'," John repeated, half exhausted, half furious. "Until you can clean yourself up and don't need your little brother to constantly take care of you, I'd rather not speak with you either."

"Fuck off," Harry hissed. "You're not our bloody dad."

"Dad's dead," John swallowed sourly. " _Liver_ , remember?"

"I'm not him," Harry's voice was trying so hard to be steady.

"No," John sighed. " _He_ drank because he liked to beat mum and then forget he'd done it.  _You_  drink because you won't grow up and deal with your life and your problems."

"What the hell do you know about my problems?"

"Nothing," John shook his head. "I'm just your brother. I just had the same parents. The same bloody fucked up childhood. I just got shot and lost everything I worked my whole life for. I just watched my fellow men die on the battlefield. I just watched my best friend fall off a building and then come back to life. I just lost my wife. I don't know anything about life or problems."

If Harry had responded, John didn't wait for it. The mobile flew across the room, landing, to John's dismay, safely and softly in his dirty laundry.

He had said it. He actually said  _it_ aloud.

His wife.

His Mary.

They weren't even granted a full year of marriage before she was stolen from him. And that's exactly how John saw it. She had been taken, ripped from his life so quickly and cruelly and permanently, that he oftentimes wondered if she had ever been real.

Of course she was real.

He was missing a very real piece of his heart to prove it. That was okay though. He let Mary take it with her where he couldn't follow. That way, she would always have a part of him, and he would forever possess a reminder of her, however painful. He was thankful for that sting. For the present reassurance of her past presence.

Sherlock reminded him too.

The great detective could recall every detail of Mary Morston when John's memory turned foggy with emotion. Every so often, John would silently hand over a piece of Mary's clothing or another personal item to his flatmate and simply close his eyes and listen as the man deduced his lost lover.

_"This was her favorite dress. She bought it on a whim on a trip to Paris shortly before meeting you. She wore it on your first date. She would usually accompany it with heels, and later, her only pair of pearl earrings – that she received from you for your six month anniversary. You never did tell her how many extra shifts you picked up or the money I gave you so you could afford them. She would've felt guilt…"_

_" Her favorite perfume. The rose petals reminded her of her grandmother's…"_

_"…read this book over a dozen times in her youth…"_

_"…that dreadful film you two always went on about and forced me to watch…"_

_"Her diary. You've never opened it. She wrote in it every night before bed. She has kept a journal of sorts since she was seven and never misses an entry. She preferred pens to pencils, blue being her color ink of choice. That tells me that she was quite friendly and an easy going, open and compassionate person. Quite like her partner. Her handwriting changes when writing about you, sometimes sloppy – fast and excited – as though she cannot wait to get the words out. Other times, it is slow and deliberate, deep, thoughtful. She usually ends these entries with some sentiment of expressing love towards you. The pages' edges also indicate that she went back and reread the days concerning you, especially the entry detailing your first meeting."_

John appreciated when his flatmate did this.

Of course Sherlock remembered all the physical details and facts. He couldn't, though, recount to John the way Mary's smile had sent shivers down the doctor's spine. How he bell-like laughter penetrated his very soul. Sherlock knew Mary had a habit of crossing her legs and tucking her hair behind her ear simultaneously. He didn't know that each time John watched her do this he became aroused.

So many little things.

All of them gone.

Just like Mary.

Just like his parents.

Just like Sherlock had been.

And just like Harry would soon be if she didn't put a stop to her current lifestyle.

John Watson was destined to be alone.

At least, that was his philosophy.

His best friend in Afghanistan, Bill, had managed to get himself stabbed in a mugging not three weeks after returning home. He fought for years in the middle of firefights and survived. He comes home, goes to coffee with his old war doctor buddy Watson, and is killed in a meaningless mugging while walking home. Five against one. Good old Bill had tried to talk the teenagers down instead of resorting to violence. He could've easily taken them down. He didn't see the kid with the blade behind him while giving his attempted motivational speech.

Mike Stamford passed from a heart attack after he and John started their Friday night outings once more. John sometimes wondered how long Sherlock knew it was coming before it happened. It had been a genetic condition. Surely the detective had somehow deduced this. Then again, Mike was not one to have wanted to know and would have rather not been told. And some people thought Sherlock was oblivious to others.

His parents died when John was a teenager, barely cresting adulthood. His father had put down his fists and the bottle for a whole 18 months when he got the news. He wasn't angry. He considered it punishment for his poor treatment of his family. John's parents had finally been happy together again when he passed. It was only two months later when his mother just sort of withered and faded away. Depression was a dangerous demon.

And that was when John Watson decided to become Doctor John Watson. If he had seen the signs in his father sooner, had known the symptoms and impending outcome of his mother's sickness. He would become a doctor. He would help people. Save them.

A lot of good that did his fallen comrades.

Or Bill.

Or Mike.

Or Mary.

He couldn't save Harry until she wanted to save herself.

How long before he was standing in front of tombstones for Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson?

And then there was Sherlock.

He had already experienced the man's death once. He wasn't sure he could survive it a second time around.

How much longer would John have with his best friend? And what would be the cause of this loss in his life?

Accidental drug overdose? Stray bullet? Purposeful bullet? Explosion – whether from a wayward experiment in their own kitchen or a criminal? Starvation from forgetting to eat? Hit by a car while running after a criminal through the streets of London?

There were plenty of options to choose from.

And if John's luck held true, it wouldn't be long before his friend was gone, and for good this time.

He had been retreating into himself these past months. Accompanying Sherlock on fewer cases. Not answering Greg's invites out to the pub. He even managed to ignore Mycroft a time or two. Molly was a bit difficult to brush off while at the morgue. They had little contact outside of Bart's, but while there, he could tangibly feel her questioning and sympathetic gaze burning into him.

He had stopped going to the morgue weeks ago.

Even Mrs. Hudson's attempts were fruitless. No longer did the duo sit and watch rubbish telly over tea and biscuits. No longer did John make regular checkups on her health and hip.

She was getting on in years. John knew it was only a matter of time before he lost her too.

Better to slowly stretch ties while he still could, and sever the ones he was able to.

Everything about Christmas seemed to be crushing him this year.

First Christmas without Mary.

Harry.

The unbelievable amount of patients.

The annoyingly cheerful atmosphere when he simply wished to be angry and upset.

Oh, and the impending deaths of everyone he cared about.

Yes, there was certainly nothing "merry" about this Christmas.


	2. Anger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TITLE: What Do the Lonely Do at Christmas?
> 
> CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Two/ Anger
> 
> RATING:T (language, content)
> 
> A/N: Christmas is obviously over and we're well past New Year's, but this story isn't centered around Christmas. There are obviously more mentions of it, but if you're sick of the holiday, please don't discard this story. I promise it's not entirely stuffed full of holiday happenings.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock... or Christmas.

_I try to make it through my life,_   
_In my way there's you..._   
_I try to make it through these lies_   
_That's all I do_

_Just don't deny it,_   
_Just don't deny it_   
_And deal with it,_   
_Yeah, deal with it_   
_You tried to break me_   
_You wanna break me_   
_Bit by bit_   
_That's just part of it._

_If you were dead or still alive,_   
_I don't care,_   
_I don't care_   
_And all the things you left behind,_   
_I don't care,_   
_I don't care_

_I try to make you see my side_   
_Always try to stay in line_   
_But your eyes see right through_   
_That's all they do_   
_I'm getting tired of this shit_   
_I've got no room when it's like this_   
_What you want of me, just deal with it_

_\- I Don't Care, Apocalyptica_

Of course Sherlock noticed his flatmate's recent decline these past few weeks. No matter what others, or even he himself said, Sherlock Holmes was no sociopath. And he certainly wasn't oblivious. He merely tended to filter out things he deemed as unimportant – feelings, social courtesies, pleasantries, first names, and everything in between. That didn't mean he didn't notice all of it in vivid detail before choosing to delete it.

And when it came to the important things, Sherlock always noticed John.

Sure, there were the times Sherlock would carry on a conversation with his flatmate when John wasn't even there, but when it came to something truly substantial, something crucial – like John current crumbling condition – Sherlock didn't miss a single thing.

He had been quite closely monitoring and analyzing his friend for several days now and the detective became less and less pleased with each new finding.  
John's frame was taking on the wiriness of an ailing man, not one of a former soldier. The doctor was frequently wearing glasses of black skin and sleepless nights. He almost ate as sparsely as Sherlock now. John no longer asked the detective to deduce things about his dead wife.

Some would see that as a healthy step to moving forward and on with his life.

Sherlock knew John far better than that.

If anything, the man was moving backward, drawing inward and away from everyone.

Sherlock preferred such a life, but John was so very different. John was social and friendly and kind. He extended a helping hand and friendship wherever he could. Besides, Sherlock was content where he was. John, on the other hand, wouldn't stop. He would continue to shrink and pull away, until he was just gone. Sherlock pushed others away, but that was at least some form of interaction. John could see through Sherlock's act when the self-proclaimed sociopath did this. But John was disappearing so much so that Sherlock almost could no longer see his friend at all. It was a completely different way of distancing oneself. And much more dangerous.

And he'd been doing a fine job of it too.

The doctor was going about it gradually. People would immediately notice and worry if John just simply and suddenly tore himself away entirely or turned on the offensive like Sherlock. His flatmate was clever.  _Clever, clever, John_ , who Sherlock would never allow to disappear from the world – from him.

John had fallen into a depression upon returning from the war. That was obvious from the first time the pair met. After Sherlock's "death", the deceased detective had had eyes put on his friend. With John's past dance with depression and his mother's death by the dark demon's hands, Sherlock was well aware of the danger. After Mary passed, the younger man kept an unobtrusive, yet vigilant, watch over the grieving widower. It had only been four months and Sherlock was now sharpening that focus on his friend with the holiday season in full sentimental swing.

Christmas seemed to excrete sentiment in a disgusting display of mostly feigned family fondness, couples clasping hands in the snow, achingly sap-steeped films and specials and advertisements, and sugary songs. Sherlock despised all the fluff already. Now he was actively avoiding it. He kept the telly off and distracted John from watching his usual programs. Once, he had come home to find his flatmate in front of the picture box with a long face as a romantic jewelry ad played across the screen. It was later that day when a mouse mysteriously got into their flat and just so happen to chew through the cables for the television. When the detective spotted a pair of lovers snogging under the mistletoe at a restaurant where he and John were having dinner, Sherlock had discreetly sent a waiter tripping and flying, knocking the lovebirds over before John saw them. He refused to take on any cases involving lost loves or spousal deaths. He even purposefully turned down a young woman with a rather intriguing predicament involving drug smugglers, her missing father, a priest and locked room murder.

Her name had been Mary.

He couldn't keep his friend shielded from everything, though, no matter how hard he tried.

When Sherlock found out two days prior that one Harriet Watson had landed herself in hospital and on the not so right side of the law, the detective had not hesitated before having a little "chat" with the woman.

Sherlock knew that John was trying to block out all emotions entirely and how truly difficult such a task was. John wasn't a psychopath or a sociopath. He had these retched feelings no matter how much he pretended or pushed. There was no flip of a switch. No fault free dam. All Sherlock had to do was make John feel something, anything, really feel it. One, single, strong, emotion to punch through that wall. All the others would soon follow, spilling in after.

The detective's mind scrolled through several scenarios and debated between which emotion to pluck at. There were a vast array of theories and psychology based upon human emotion. Some listed five basic emotions, others seven. Fear breeds adrenaline, but it's also fickle. It can both push or paralyze. To inject his flatmate with further sadness would only deepen the man's depression and desire to rid himself of that pain.

Sherlock had seen John Watson angry. He had himself been the target of said rage on varying occasions, his return from the grave included. Fury and hate were wild, sometimes uncontrollable, striking out without a person even fully intending to say or do certain things while under their influence.

Yes, anger could do it. Hatred would be the pressure point. The crack. The break.

Sherlock Holmes was quite skilled at offending those around him and eliciting an antagonized response. He imagined it would be quite a simple task to bring forth such a return from a man whose buttons Sherlock knew exactly how to push.

It started with little things. Leaving more body parts around the flat. Letting the milk go bad on the counter. Screeching away on his violin for hours. Setting fire to the curtains. Spilling a rather acidic experiment all over the kitchen table.

Then he started getting in John's way. Sprinting to occupy the bathroom when he saw John heading in that direction. Taking elongated showers that made John late for a shift. Bumping into him in the doorway. He even sat in John's chair.

He would observe, silently and pleasantly, as his flatmate tried to shake off each irritation, watching as each seemingly insignificant antic and emotion was swallowed down. It wouldn't be long before they would all pile up and come spewing back out.

Sherlock also implemented subtle, psychological attacks. Things that would make John irrationally angry without even meaning to be. Like an incessant itch he can't scratch. Some things were aesthetically pleasing naturally, whilst others, caused humans involuntary irritation. Pictures were tilted. A shelf off books were kept all straight and tidy, save the last one would be turned upside down. Furniture was moved just slightly out of place. The detective would almost soundlessly hum a tune and would be able to pinpoint the exact moment when the song would get stuck in John's head.

It wasn't long before he began his verbal assault.

"Lestrade wanted me to work a case of a missing girl." He had snorted. "Children. Not my area. Or my interest. Needy little things with hardly any intelligence or emotional control whatsoever, not to match bladder control as well."

"John, really, and I thought the mustache aged you. If all I saw was that jumper and not your face, I'd be forced to deduce that you were an old man."

"The doctor was the killer, John. I mean, really. Are there any competent doctors in this world? Do they just throw out medical degrees like confetti at a party? People actually trust these complete imbeciles with their lives?"

Again, little things. Like grating cheese. Slowly, he knew he was wearing the good doctor down.

And there it was.

_Anger._

Sherlock smiled as he took the fist to his face. He hardly remembered what exactly he had said, but knew the names Harry and Mary had come into play at some point. It was his final hitter. His knock out punch after wearing his opponent down. Of course, he hadn't fully intended for himself to be physically punched in return.

But it was something.

Sherlock had to stifle gleeful laughter as John pulled his arm back and glared at his flatmate. There was a fire in John's eyes that would have sent someone else shaking to their knees. For Sherlock, it only brought prideful joy.

It didn't last though.

No sooner had the blood started cascading from Sherlock's nose, did John's expression shift. The fire was extinguished and in its place stood stark sorrow.

Sadness at the words Sherlock had so callously cut into him, and guilt for hurting his friend.

Sherlock had believed that breaking John's emotional dam entirely would logically result with his friend finally being able to make progress. He could be sorrowful and grieve, and then move on. Get better. Be John again.

Somehow, the genius had gravely miscalculated.

The shock of rage, following swiftly by sadness, reminded John why he was doing what he was doing. It fueled his need to cut himself off from everyone. He couldn't feel that agony again. He couldn't survive it.

Part of him didn't care if he survived at all. He didn't care much for living anymore.

That would be the ultimate severing of sentiment, wouldn't it? Killing himself. Putting a final end to his pain filled existence for good.

But he couldn't do that.

Because, even after rebuilding his dam, even after everything, there was still something there. A crack in the concrete. He no longer possessed any concern for himself, but he could never cease caring for others, no matter how hard he tried or how high of a wall he created. Mary would have never wanted John to take his life and Sherlock would be devastated.

So John did the only thing he could. He repaired the dam and kept his distance. Even if he couldn't stop or patch all of the cracks and stop caring entirely, he could make it hurt less. It was something.

And John would give anything for even a minute reprieve of his grief.

So John lay on his bed, staring somberly at the ceiling. He tried to not think about Mary. He shoved aside guilt for punching Sherlock. He focused on filtering everything out, his only thoughts being on that ceiling.

Sometimes John wished he was a sociopath.


	3. Desperate Measures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TITLE: What Do the Lonely Do at Christmas?
> 
> CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Three/ Desperate Measures
> 
> RATING: T (language, content)
> 
> A/N: FINALLY some action! I had a couple ideas for this story for putting Sherlock's life in danger and having John have to save him. This one seemed very...Sherlock. Let me know if you want to read the others! Maybe I can put them as a separate story or as add on chapters at the end.
> 
> Please read and review, many thanks.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.

_"These desperate times call for desperate measures  
I'll give you something to cry about"_

_\- Desperate Measures by Marianas Trench_

Sometimes Sherlock wished he was a sociopath.

Sure, he fitted himself with the title quite proudly, but he knew it was not true. Not even high functioning.

No.

Sherlock felt everything.

And right then, he didn't want to.

He was losing his best friend. Kind, compassionate, loyal, funny, witty, clever, selfless, John. Doctor John Watson. Captain John Watson. Blogger John Watson.

Everything John had done in his life had been to help others, to ease or prevent their pain. Yet the healer did not know how to mend himself.

And Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to do either.

It was the week before Christmas and not a single scrap of holiday cheer was to be found in 221B. Sherlock had managed to persuade Mrs. Hudson from putting up her normal festive decor. No carols were caressed from the strings of his violin. No party was scheduled.

Not that John had emerged from his bedroom much in the past few days to notice. He trudged downstairs for the bathroom, tea and a bit of toast, or to collect his post and paper, but that was all.

Sherlock had run out of ideas. Emotions were far from one of his areas of expertise. He had gone so far as to pick up several volumes of text on the subject and that of loss. He had studied the stages of grief and catalogued his flatmate's behaviors into each one. He had actually even attempted some of the techniques recommended, but still John remained the same.

Sherlock felt himself beginning to grieve as well.

The John Watson that was his flatmate was all but dead and gone.

The man who lived with him now was simply the shell of his once best friend.

There was only one tactic Sherlock had left in his arsenal. One literal last effort to bring his blogger back from the emotionless grave. His idea was not found in any book or article. It was entirely Sherlock's thinking and devising.

Which meant it was extremely dangerous.

Sherlock considered that this last resort to save his friend, might just get himself killed.

That was okay, though.

If it worked, he would live and his John would be back.

If he failed, he would die. And that was an acceptable outcome because if he did pass on, then that meant that this plan did not work and that John was lost forever. And Sherlock Holmes did not desire to live in a world where John Watson did not exist.

Sherlock steepled his fingers and let his eyelids slide closed for a brief moment before leaping off his chair and marching straight toward the camera he knew Mycroft had planted in his flat.

"I require some time to speak with my flatmate, dear brother," Sherlock's voice was low and dangerous, "in  _private_. And if you do anything to interfere, I will bring you down from your position and pedestal so swiftly, even you won't be able to see it coming."

With that, Sherlock switched off the hidden device and marched purposefully to the fireplace. Leaning and bending so that he was almost halfway inside of it, the detective removed a brick and retrieved a small box, containing an all too familiar substance. He held it in his palm for a lingering moment, feeling the craving bubble underneath his skin.

Mycroft would be furious.

Greg would be furious.

John would be furious.

But John would be his old, protective, raging, furious self.

Sherlock would gladly endure all the lectures in the world from the lot of them. He would have to suffer through withdrawal once more. Maybe even rehab if his brother locked him away - again.

None of that mattered.

This was the most logical method in executing his plan.

Gunshot wounds were tricky and Sherlock didn't fancy all that pain. Knives were just as fickle. Either far too safe, or hitting just the right artery and bringing him to death's door before his theory could be properly tested. Besides, then he would have to fabricate a case, a criminal, something tedious and tiring. He certainly wasn't doing anything remotely close to jumping, falling, or anything of the like.

And purposeful accidental deaths were unpredictable. He could easily arrange a car accident, but there were so many factors that could go wrong. An accidental drowning? Again, dependent on others and surrounding elements.

No, this he could control. He had always been obsessively meticulous about his dosages. He was no idiot. He would inject enough in his system to guarantee to gain the desired outcome and never surpassed his bodily limit. Therefore, when calculating his lowered tolerance from being clean over the years, factoring in the drugs he had been exposed to during his cases, his weight and the strength of the substance per the seller and after it sat stagnant for years, Sherlock was certain he could tip himself just enough over the edge. He would take in the correct amount to bring him to the point of overdosing, but only just. Really, he'd barely be there. It wouldn't be near enough to kill him on the spot. Perfectly treatable.

If he was found and cared for in a timely manner.

Sherlock padded into the bathroom, seizing the needle concealed in plain sight amongst their plethora of first aid supplies. Of course he rotated their hidden locations at regular intervals. The Detective Inspector and his team's pathetic attempt at a drugs bust had been almost laughable. He clearly remembered the cocaine being right quite literally under Anderson's nose at one point, perfectly concealed, and the man failed to notice.

With a strange fusion of sadness and excitement, Sherlock prepared his liquid death in the kitchen.

Returning to the sitting room, Sherlock settled himself in his chair and glanced at his mobile, noting the time. John would be coming downstairs soon for the bathroom.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock sucked in a breath, released it, and then pierced his skin. The needle plunged into his vein with dangerous and practiced accuracy.

His mind palace exploded with color and speed. Images, some memories, others creations of the drug, flashed behind his eyelids. Every synopsis in his brain felt stimulated all at once. Snapping with vigorous vitality.

He could tackle any case, any problem, anything at all.

He suddenly saw half a dozen more different ways he could have outsmarted Moriarty on that rooftop.

The few cold case files that he had been toying with, and their answers, all came bursting to light.

_It was the brother. Had to be. The limp proved it!_

_The hairline of the uncle is the clue, of course!_

_The boy was abused! He ran away, he wasn't taken! Bedroom indicates the teenager is in Wales._

_The maid couldn't have done it. Just look at her eyebrows!_

_The bodies were buried in different town cemeteries, alphabetically by city and victim's name, obviously._

_The screwdriver! How had he missed that!_

_The little girl was still alive. Kidnappers were most certainly -_

_Where was I?_

_Mind palace, right. Time for some cleaning!_

_Case solved. Delete all first names._

_Case solved. Keep data on alcohol poisoning._

_Case in progress. Delete aunt's childhood history. Irrelevant. Aunt not guilty._

_New restaurant opened two streets down. Food, subpar. Delete._

_New neighbors. Dull. Delete._

_Read book on Native cultures. Store information on killing rituals._

_Watched rubbish film last month with John. Delete. Keep final fight scene and murder for further study and dissection._

_Molly cut her hair. Del - Keep._

Everything was passing through the palace like a speeding train.

He couldn't stop it if he tried.

Blinking rapidly, Sherlock glanced down at his phone once more. John would be down soon.

He dropped the mobile without realizing it as his fingers began to tap on the arm of the chair.

He had the sudden intense urge to launch himself out of the chair and was still thinking about it when he realized he had already done so.

He wanted to run, dance, shout, and sing, all at once.

His eyes fell on the kitchen and his equipment.

_Brilliant!_

He could work on some of his more difficult experiments with his empowered brain while he waited for the good doctor.

He made to begin walking forward but his feet were too fast and his head was starting to spin. Just how long had he been sitting in that chair or standing in the middle of the room?

He wasn't granted much time to think about either question as the floor rushed to meet his face. His skull and cheek crashed against the ground, sending explosions of color and heat and pain and nausea coursing through him.

It was happening now.

The fun part of the ride was already over.

_A bit too soon. Odd._

He glanced at the door.

_Where was John?_

Groaning, Sherlock groped the wall and pulled himself shakily to his faltering feet. He unsteadily began pacing the room – the room that was tediously turning boring colors.  _Dull. Ignore._

_What had I been doing before?_

_I was going somewhere. Wasn't I?_

_Going..._

_Was I supposed to meet someone?_

_Lestrade? Ah, yes! Lestrade! A case! Perfect!_

_But where?_

He started toward his discarded phone when -

_Where was I?_

_Yes, right, his task. Task, task, task, tsk, tisk, tssk -_

_Meeting someone?_

_No, saving someone!_

_So it was a case! How -_

_What was I doing?_

_I've forgotten something. Did I leave the burner on my experiment on again? John so hates that._

_John. John. John._

_Why is John important?_

_Was I supposed to meet John?_

_Maybe I'm late for –_

_Oh, where was I?_

_Something important._

_Someone important._

_Im-por-tant._

_Immmpoouuurrtaannt._

The word sounded funny in his voice.

_Was he saying it aloud?_

_Why was he thinking - no talking? - in the third person?_

_And why am I soaking?_

_Did I shower? How odd. Very unintelligent, Sherlock, showering in one's clothes._

He liked these clothes. He didn't want them wet.

Sherlock brought his fingers up and began unbuttoning his shirt with little success. His hands slipped and shook.

_Sweat._

_Not water._

_I'm sweating._

_Well, that's rather disgusting._

_I hope I don't smell._

_John hates it when my experiments smell._

_John!_

_That was it!_

_He was supposed to meet John!_

He didn't remember why but that was okay because it was getting quite difficult to breathe just then and John was a doctor. John could fix his broken lungs.

_Where was John?_

_Oh, there._

_Why is he sitting on my chest? People will talk._

_Oh, he's not._

_Who's sitting on my chest?_

_Hurts._

_Heavy._

_John, get them off._

_John!_

_Are you even listening to me?_

Sherlock tried to yell at the blur hovering above him.

Or was it an angel? No. Sherlock didn't believe in Angels. But he believed in John. And John believed in him. John always believed in him and John was -

_Why are you fuzzy?_

_This is unacceptable._

_Where are my glasses?_

_Oh, I don't wear glasses._

_You can't be blurry._

_Where are your glasses?_

_No! Don't fade away! Don't go! Don't leave me!_

_John!_

_Where are you?_

_Where am I?_

_There's a case. We have to -_

_John! Stop!_

_You're fading again._

_Stop mumbling, you idiot. I can't understa -_

Sherlock gasped as everything flashed bright and painful and the detective was enveloped in a white blanket –

_Nothing like the shock blanket - this one was –_

_–_ and promptly knew no more.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TITLE: What Do the Lonely Do at Christmas?
> 
> CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Four/ Fix You
> 
> RATING: T (language, content)
> 
> A/N: sorry if you hate me after that last chapter!
> 
> Please read and review, many thanks.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.

_When you try your best, but you don't succeed_   
_When you get what you want, but not what you need_   
_When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep_   
_Stuck in reverse_

_And the tears come streaming down your face_   
_When you lose something you can't replace_   
_When you love someone, but it goes to waste_   
_Could it be worse?_

-  _Fix You by Coldplay_

John's sheets nearly tore under his deathly grip. The former soldier was still shivering, a sheen of fresh sweat sweeping across his forehead.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep.

He hated sleep.

Sleep meant dreams.

Nightmares.

While under slumber's power, John had no control. His subconscious and night terrors paid no heed to his emotional barrier. They shoved every single one of those forcibly forgotten feelings at him without reprieve or remorse.

 _Anger_  - Moriarty forcing Sherlock off that roof. Harry blaming him for her problems and lying. His life for continually robbing him of those he loved.

 _Joy_  - Mary's face. Her laugh. Their wedding. Sherlock returning.

 _Sadness_  - Mary's face. Her laugh. Their wedding. Sherlock's death. Mike's death. Bill's. His parents'.

 _Disgust_  - Harry's drinking. Moriarty. Himself. His life.

 _Fear_  - Afghanistan. Nights alone with his father. Being strapped to an explosive. That last phone call with Sherlock before the jump. Popping the question to Mary.

 _Trust_  - Mary. Mrs. Hudson. Greg. Molly. Sherlock.

 _Anticipation_  - The butterflies in his stomach just before Mary walked down the aisle. Waiting for his acceptance letter into medical school.

 _Surprise_  - Getting shot. Sherlock jumping. Sherlock coming back. Mary saying yes. Mary dying.

Those and so many other emotions and memories plagued his unconscious state.

John spent a good ten minutes clutching the sheets, no longer from the after effects of the nightmare, but out of focus. He was raising the barrier. Strengthening the stupid dam that kept breaking and flooding him with these undesired feelings.

Some distant piece of his soul cried out to Sherlock for comfort. For the violin music Sherlock not-so-secretly used to lull him back to a peaceful rest after particularly problematic and painful dreams. For the simple presence of his flatmate as the younger man would sometimes silently stand outside John's door after a frightening fit. Both knew he did this, but neither ever mentioned it.

After Mary's death, Sherlock had all but camped out just beyond John's always closed door during the night. Only once, though, did the detective fall asleep and fail to wake in time. John found him in the morning, slumped over against the wall on the hard ground.

_Stop it._

He had to stop himself from thinking of Sherlock.

_Sentiment._

But how could he not? Everything around him reminded him of the man, of Mary of everyone.

This wasn't working.

Mentally and emotionally trying to detach himself from his friend's and his feelings was proving far too difficult.

He had to do so physically as well.

Somewhere where he wouldn't constantly smell Mary of Sherlock's scent, see Sherlock himself, accidentally touch one of Mary's possessions, step into a memory. How many times had he walked past Bart's only to be assaulted with visions of the fall, of his first meeting with Sherlock, Mike or Molly? He would watch a copper drive by and be reminded of Greg or smell coming from downstairs and imagine Mrs. Hudson. The flat held too much of much of Sherlock and Mary. London held too much of all of them.

He had to leave.

Ireland was out. Moriarty's accent would be on everyone's lips.

Bill had been from Kent, so that was a no, and far too close for comfort.

Mary had friends in the Sussex and a few other surrounding cities.

The entirety of Britain was under Mycroft's thumb.

His father had taken him on a business trip to Denmark when he was young, and John had returned with a broken jaw and a false story of falling on some rocks.

A couple of his old army buddies had spread out to the States.

He was still listing off possible places to disappear to when he realized he had already started packing. He didn't have much in way of possessions. It wouldn't take long.

Was he really going to do this?

_Of course._

He had to.

Maybe if he was gone, the curse that surrounded him, killing off those he loved, would leave with him. Everyone could live longer, happier lives, without him.

And then there was Sherlock.

The detective could survive John's leaving. His older friend would still be alive, even if gone. The genius might even try hunting John down, but at least that would give his younger friend something to entertain himself with. Sherlock always loved a good chase.

Slinging his army duffel over his shoulder, John exhaled before exiting the room.

He had planned to march straight down the stairs and out the door, until an odd sound caught his ear.

His name.

But not his name.

It was more of a grunted, garbled, mess of the single syllable.

John curiously turned into the sitting room to investigate the possible distress call and promptly dropped his bag to the ground.

Sherlock was slowly sliding to the floor, a crumpled, trembling wreck. He was trying to climb up the wall, but his legs wouldn't even let his stand. His chest heaved as the man slumped forward and then tipped over sideways, right next to a discarded needle.

John remained rooted to his spot for the longest moment of his life.

There were those damned emotions again.

Anger - Sherlock had done drugs again!

Sadness -  _Sherlock_  had done  _drugs_.

Disgust - Sherlock had done drugs -  _again!_

Fear - Sherlock, had - done - drugs.

Trust - Sherlock had done drugs - again - after he promised me he had stopped.

Anticipation - Sherlock had done a dangerous amount of drugs and was overdosing.

Surprise - Sherlock had done drugs - again - and was dying - again.

The doctor launched himself forward just as the detective began retching all over himself. Sherlock didn't even seem to notice. John dropped to his knees next to the man and attempted to assess his condition. He would stabilize his flatmate here if he could. Sherlock would throw a right fit for taking him to the hospital and he might be cut from cases by Lestrade or Mycroft for punishment for the relapse - when in reality that would only make a second relapse for imminent.

_Serves him right!_

_What was that? Oh, right. Anger. Damn it! Shut it off! Shut. It. Off._

Sherlock was seriously struggling to breathe now and was clutching as his chest.

"-ur-s"

"-vy"

"I know. Can you hear me, Sherlock? I need you to stay awake." His soldier's voice overpowered his words.

"John!"

"Sherlock, keep your eyes open it."

"No! Don - way! Don - go! Don - eave me -"

"I'm here. Stay with me."  _Sadness. Right. Shit._

"John!"

"It's okay, Sherlock. It's alright. I'm here. You're going to be fine, you bloody idiot."

"Sto - mum - id - can - un - nd -"

John watched in -  _what was that - fear? Right. Damn._ Well, more, horror, really, as the man on the floor began to seize. He could do so much more for Sherlock, but stuck at the flat without proper medication, he was utterly helpless. He was almost -  _disgusted_ \- with himself for not having foreseen something like this and being properly prepared.

The logical, medical, part of his mind reminded him that Sherlock wasn't currently feeling any pain from the attack. But the friend and blogger was held captive by that fear.

No, this was Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock  _bloody_ Holmes was stronger than a stupid seizure. Than a stupid drug.

John  _trusted_ his friend to survive this. He had to.

Moving Sherlock onto his side and into the recovery position, John seized the pillow from his chair for the man's head. He had barely put it in place when Sherlock began convulsing once more. John hastily kept his airway clear, noting the scarlet tint to the vomit. Sherlock must have bit his tongue, and hard. Pushing it to the back of his mind, John made quick work of loosening the detectives clothing. Sherlock's skin was blazing and John bolted off the floor and into the kitchen. He dreaded leaving Sherlock alone and moved with trained medical and military speed.

The doctor returned to the seizing man's side, placing a cool wet cloth on his forehead while checking his watch.

One minute, forty six seconds.

Without restraining Sherlock's arm, John managed to take a pulse while still staring at the time.

He scanned the room and his clinical eyes fell on the needle. There was no indication of how much Sherlock had taken but he could at least guess the time of injection.

_No empty glass._

So Sherlock hadn't been drinking.

That was something at least.

He checked his wrist again.

Three minutes, thirty six seconds.

"Come on, Sherlock."

Another sixty seconds ticked terribly by and the detective was still sexing.

"Damn it, Sherlock," John grunted as he reached over and grabbed his friend's fallen phone.

He didn't wait for the operator to finish speaking before practically shouting into the device.

"221B Baker Street, second floor. Patient's name, Sherlock Holmes." He quickly ticked off his flatmate's age, weight and heart rate. "My name is Doctor John Watson. Patient overdosed on what is assumed to be cocaine. Not positive of drug's identity or level of toxicity."

He continued to explain as he checked his friend's vitals again, relaying them to the woman and making an educated guess as to the amount of the drug taken given the symptoms.

"Previous cocaine user. High tolerance. First relapse in at least three years."

He didn't have to guess. He knew Sherlock. There was no possible way the man had used drugs right under his nose and the detective was far too busy and excited chasing down Moriarty's web while he was playing dead to use.

"Patient experiencing grand mal seizures for total of - five minutes, forty two seconds. Vomiting. Airway clear. Tremors."

John's voice faded as he swallowed back emotions and a breath. He had referred to Sherlock as the patient.  _Good_.  _Keep your distance. Just do your job. You're a doctor. He's a patient. You can still leave when this is all over._

He kept talking. And talking. Relaying details and diagnosis. Some of it clinical and clipped, reminiscent of his war days. Other words were fillers, trivial trinkets of information to keep his mouth and brain moving.

"Sir, an ambulance is on its way -"

"Shit," John interrupted, "the door."

John stood hesitantly.

"Don't you die while I'm gone," John commanded his patient before he sprinted out of the flat and down the stairs. He swung the front door wide open and whirled back around to run up the steps.

"John? What on earth is going on? I heard -"

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson," John spoke in almost Sherlock fashion. "Go outside and wait for the ambulance. Bring them upstairs when they get here!"

John was already up the stairs and back at Sherlock's side when he finished shouting, leaving their door hanging open. It was only then that he realized he had dropped the mobile in his haste.

His attention was ripped from the phone as his gaze found his flatmate.

Sherlock's body was no longer twitching. In fact, Sherlock's form wasn't moving - at all.

"No, no," John slid to his knees, hands fumbling to the unconscious man's neck. "You're not dying this you damn sodding -"

John continued to berate and insult Sherlock as he started chest compressions.

"Breathing isn't boring now, is it, you stupid git."  _Anger._

"Come on Sherlock, come on!"  _Anticipation._

"You're always so fucking stubborn," aren't you?"  _Anger - again._

"Just once, please, listen to me."  _Sadness._

"You're Sherlock Holmes! You're my best friend. You can do this!"  _Trust._

"Don't make me kiss that vomit stained mouth."  _Disgust._

"Please, Sherlock,"  _\- Fear -_ "I can't lose you too,"  _Sadness._

"Don't you take him away from me! Not now! Don't do this to me!"  _Disgust. Anger._

"Please, God, let him live."  _Fear. Anticipation. Sadness. Anger._

And there it was.

_Surprise._

Sherlock's chest rose.

And then fell.

Rose again.

Fell again.

Over and over.

John felt his own heart pounding, his lungs burning. It was the doctor's turn to tremble. He thought he might be sweating pretty profusely when he realized it was tears, not perspiration, on his cheeks.

There was no stopping the flood now.

Emotions and tears came crashing forward.

One minute, three seconds.

Sherlock Holmes' heart had stopped beating for over sixty seconds.

Sherlock had been dead.

Really, truly, properly, dead.

No tricks.

No illusions.

No coming back.

Dead.

For that minute and three seconds John Watson tasted life again without Sherlock Holmes.


	5. Fix You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TITLE: What Do the Lonely Do at Christmas?
> 
> CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Five/ Let It Hurt
> 
> RATING: T (language, content)
> 
> A/N: Lots of bromance on the way! And guest appearances by Lestrade and Mycroft!
> 
> Please read and review, many thanks.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.

_7:42 in the morning_   
_8 seconds before it all sinks in_   
_Put your best face on for the world_   
_Fake another smile and just pretend_   
_But you're just puttin' off the pain_   
_Nothing's ever really gonna change_

_So let it hurt, let it bleed_   
_Let it take you right down to your knees_   
_Let it burn to the worst degree_   
_May not be what you want, but it's what you need_   
_Sometimes the only way around it_   
_Is to let love do it's work_   
_And let it hurt_   
_Yeah, let it hurt_

_3:28 in the morning_   
_Countin' up the spaces between the rain_   
_You're gettin' used to the rocks at the bottom_   
_Your heart goes numb, but the lonely stays the same_   
_And that's the price you're bound to pay_   
_And there's really nothing anyone can say_   
_Oh, there's only just one way_

_So let it hurt, let it bleed_   
_Let it take you right down to your knees_   
_Let it burn to the worst degree_   
_May not be what you want, but it's what you need_   
_Sometimes the only way around it_   
_Is to let love do it's work_   
_So go on_   
_Yeah, let it hurt_

_You might just find you're better for it_   
_When you let go and you learn_   
_To let it hurt, let it bleed_   
_Let it take you right down to your knees_   
_Oh..._   
_Sometimes the only way around it_   
_Is to let love do it's work_   
_So go on_   
_And let it hurt_   
_Oh, let it hurt_

_7:42 in the morning_   
_8 seconds before it all sinks in_

_\- Let It Hurt by Rascal Flatts_

Sherlock had a love, hate relationship with hospitals.

He loathed the A&E, the screaming children, the weeping women, the incompetent staff. But then the detective could live in the morgue and the labs.

Hospitals were where he had spent much of his childhood after accidents with his experiments or when he tested his self-proclaimed "indestructible" nature a bit too far.

The morgue offered him endless puzzles to solve and lives to deduce. The labs were an escape where he could quite often work happily alone.

It was where he met John Watson and his life was turned quite absurdly, and yet secretly splendidly, upside down. Yet it was also where he first was introduced to Jim, where Moriarty had forced him off that roof.

Sherlock wasn't awake for more than two seconds before he successfully deduced where he was, and which part of said building he was unfortunately and distastefully currently in.

The coarse fabric against his skin. The tango of iron and latex and sterilization that danced in the air. The muffled shuffling of feet. The absence of distant traffic noise indicated the floor number. The incessant beeping from obnoxious machines telling him things about himself that he already knew. By ten seconds of consciousness, Sherlock had already monitored and calculated his own vitals.

The realization of where he was took Sherlock's mood and promptly plummeted it down a great cavern.

_What had happened this time?_

Keeping his eyes closed and his breathing deceptively even, the detective examined himself.

_No bullet wounds. Always a plus._

_No lacerations or signs of knife related injuries. Bonus._

And then he saw it. A fresh mark screaming out at him among the old scars.

And then it came rushing back all at once and Sherlock felt his mood lifting and leaping from the bottomless pit.

He was in a hospital.

He was alive.

His plan worked.

Tentatively, he extended his senses out toward his surroundings. The room was suspiciously silent, save for the machine.

_Private room._

_Damn, Mycroft._

But there was another soft sound lingering amidst the hush.

_Breathing._

_Focused. Controlled. Calculated. Angry, yet relieved. Tired. Impatient. Waiting. Hesitantly hopeful._

_John._

The familiar scene of his flatmate floating toward him further proved his thinking.

With something akin to excitement, Sherlock peeled his eyelids open and was met by the hard, deep stare of one John Watson. His eyes registered somewhere between a glare and a prayer, mirroring his breathing.

"You know, I asked Mycroft," John started slowly before Sherlock could speak, "and he assured me that you really are a genius. Gave me your IQ 'n everything. But I still think you are the  _stupidest_ man I've ever met, Sherlock."

John's voice was a very carefully controlled rage that made Sherlock break into a genuine grin.

"What the  _hell_ are you smiling about Sherlock? You almost died! If I hadn't -"

"But you did," Sherlock stated simply. "I knew you would."

"Knew I would what?" John barked incredulously.

"Save me."

John looked like he'd stepped out onto the street and just missed getting clipped by a car.

"You - what?" John's fury fumbled for words. "You - you decided you would overdose because - what - you knew I'd be upstairs? Is this one of those 'risking your life to prove your clever' things? What, you got bored so you thought  _this_ would be fun? I can't - I don't believe you, Sherlock! Do you have  _any_ clue, at all, how scared I was? You died, Sherlock, _again_! Your heart stopped!"

"I may have made a minor miscalculation," Sherlock whispered.

"' _Minor miscalculation_ '?" John roared. "Minor? I - I can't even -"

"You're upset," Sherlock nodded.

"Upset? Of course I'm upset! I just had to bring my best friend back from the dead, you bloody idiot!"

"And you were scared," Sherlock was smiling again. "Now you're angry."

"Sherlock, I -"

"It worked."

John stopped short and studied his friend intently.

"You're back."

John was silent as the gears in his head began turning and realization struck him like a fist. He was forcibly quiet for a long moment, reigning himself in and trying to find order to his words and emotions. Swallowing, John closed and reopened his eyes.

"You - you nearly  _killed_ yourself to – to make me  _feel._  To  _hurt_ me?" His voice wasn't doing a proper job of listening to his brain and staying even. "You were dead!"

"So were you!"

John reacted as if slapped and sat back in his chair.

"You - you died, John. You were gone. You were here, living, but no longer alive. I - I couldn't lose you. Not again. You're hurting, John. I know what it's like to turn it off. Please." John's throat clenched at the unusual pleading word and tone. "You can't. Not you. I am - unfamiliar - with - providing comfort. I bought books. I tried tea. I will keep trying. I am sorry. I am not - good - at it. But I will try. Just tell me what to do. Just stay. Don't disappear again. Stay and tell me what to do."

John was struck speechless. He had never heard his flatmate portray such emotions, save that day on the rooftop - and even those John oftentimes wondered at their validity. He almost couldn't believe his own eyes when he saw a line of water striking down Sherlock's cheek like a scar.

It was only then that John understood. The doctor hadn't been the only one to lose someone that day. Sherlock had had to leave John and not look back, possibly for forever. And now Sherlock thought he was losing him again, but this time the detective had no control.

Could he really do that to his best friend just to spare his own suffering?

 _Spare what suffering?_ A voice scolded him.  _You were still suffering, just silently. Just pretending._

Of course that was true. John couldn't shut out his emotions completely, even when he appeared to have detached himself from everything and everyone.

And then there was that moment.

That moment when John had thought Sherlock had been dead - again. The debilitating heartache that John had so desperately been trying to avoid was right there ready to drown him, despite the dams. No matter how much he had closed himself off, the grief had burst through swiftly and easily. The sudden flood of emotions had nearly crushed him after keeping them at bay for so long.

There was no fix. No removing the emotions or blocking them out. Not really. Sherlock had been branded onto his heart. Just like Greg, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Mycroft and Harry. Just as Mary, Mike, Bill and his parents had been. He could spend his life pretending they hadn't, wasting whatever time he had left with each of them. Or, he could embrace the emotions and enjoy the moments he was granted with those he loved, and remember the ones with those he had lost.

Sherlock didn't know what to make of John's somber silence. He felt himself beginning to panic, horrified that the man was retreating back into himself once more.

"Don't," Sherlock demanded, half parts dangerous, half parts petrified and pleading. "Don't become me. Don't be like me."

John pulled himself out of his thoughts and let a grin break over his features.

"No one could be like you, Sherlock."

A flicker of confusion, then offense, flashed over Sherlock's face before being replaced by that far too rare expression of joy. The detective laughed, a real, rolling, laugh, his baritone sounds swimming with John's harmonizing higher giggles.

Sherlock saw the second John's floodgates broke and the man's laughter slowly shifted to soft sobs. It physically pained Sherlock to see his friend in such absolutely agony as all ignored emotions attacked him. But he also was brought joy by it. John needed to let this hurt him. To be taken to his knees. To let the grief do this to him. To allow the pain and the process. All of it.

Only once had Sherlock witnessed John cry over Mary's death. And that was the day he found him on the floor and carried him to his bed. And he was almost certain there had been no more significant crying done over his lost wife. Not once did he shed a tear over Mike or Bill. He never talked about his parents, much less showed any emotion toward their deaths. Sure, he knew tears escaped, especially during nightmares, but John had yet to allow any of their deaths to really have their hold on him. He had to let all of these emotions in so they could sort themselves out instead of being suffocated.

Openly sobbing in front of Sherlock was not something John was exactly planning on doing or necessarily proud of. But losing the man once before, now nearly twice, had changed him. Changed both of them.

Without either really intending to, both of their hands found each others'. John was still slumped forward in the chair, his head buried in his palm, while the other reached out to the bed. Sherlock seemed to sense it happening as his own arm extended. The hold was firm and comforted the pair. Even if both of the men had their closed. Even if the two denied it ever happening. It didn't matter. Right then, nothing else mattered as John let his emotions wash over him, and Sherlock acted as his anchor, keeping his friend from being swept under.

Neither was sure exactly how long they remained like that. Because neither remained awake long enough to know.

Sherlock was the first to step back into the light of consciousness. He vaguely noted that his hand was still locked around John's and that the man was now leaning sideways in his chair. Despite the obviously uncomfortable position, John looked the most peaceful he had in longer than Sherlock could recall. The detective was sure that no nightmares would be plaguing his friend right now. And just to keep that theory certain - for scientific purposes of course - Sherlock didn't let go.

It was only several hours later, when John began to stir, that Sherlock discreetly drew his hand back. If John noticed, he didn't say anything. In fact, both men were almost acting as though nothing had happened.

"Even when in hospital, you don't sleep," John shook his head.

"I do not trust doctors," Sherlock smirked. "They are known to resorting to deplorable and unfair methods to getting others to sleep."

"That was one time," John sighed, "I put a sedative in your tea  _once_ after you hadn't slept for nearly a week and you never let me forget it."

"I would've thought as a doctor you would not act so dangerously," Sherlock crossed his arms.

"I think purposefully pumping yourself full of a deadly drug is just a  _bit_ more dangerous," John argued.

And despite the severity of the situation and the words just spoken, the two grown men burst into laughter. It was another release. Just as the pain had to come, so did the joy. Sherlock would have to carefully watch the doctor for the days to come to monitor his unstable emotions. He knew they would be coming and going until they finally settled and John began to heal. Until then, Sherlock was content to laugh alongside his friend.

Their moment of merriment was interrupted as the door clicked open and in stepped two familiar figures. It was almost odd seeing the pair standing side by side one another.

"So, I see your childish and highly dangerous scheme worked then."

"Mycroft," Sherlock only nodded his brother's name in greeting and response.

"Wait," John straightened. "You knew?"

"Not beforehand, no," Mycroft sighed. "Otherwise, I would have swiftly put a stop to such nonsense. When I received word of what my dear brother had been up to, it wasn't difficult to deduce. Sherlock may have been careless enough to use, but never reckless enough to overdose. Even if he  _is_ dumb enough to do so on purpose. His reasons were obvious." Mycroft's hard gaze fell on John, causing the doctor to shift uncomfortably.

"Don't you dare blame John for this," Sherlock warned, seething.

"You, brother mine, are in no position to be making threats."

"Do what you wish to punish me, Mycroft," Sherlock spat. "Send me to one of your dismal rehabilitation centers or pathetically unintelligent ' _specialists_ ', but leave John out of it."

John couldn't help but be touched by his flatmate's protective words.

"Oh, but the good doctor, I'm afraid, is an integral part of your punishment."

Sherlock's glare would have sent terror driving straight through to anyone else's soul, but Mycroft simply strode forward, now addressing to former soldier.

"My brother will require near constant surveillance. I can do my part with my cameras and my men, but I will need someone on the inside, monitoring his physical and mental wellbeing very closely. Do you understand?"

John gave a curt nod. He knew exactly what Mycroft was doing. It was what Sherlock had been doing, albeit in a much more dangerous manner. Mycroft was assigning Sherlock's safety and rehabilitation to John. The doctor couldn't fade away again, not with Sherlock's health in his hands. Sherlock and John needed each other. Mycroft knew this and John almost smiled at the sentiment. "This, of course, means that you will be required to accompany him outside the flat to the shops, on cases," Mycroft paused when Sherlock's features finally seemed to reveal comprehension. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, here, will be making sure the two of you are  _both_ present at crime scenes and reporting back to me. You will be taking a leave of absence from work, John, as this will demand your full time and attention. After a time when I see fit, you will be allowed to return to your job, if you so wish. Otherwise, you can continue your position with my brother. Either way, as long as you remain in this -  _employment_ \- I assure you, you will be more than fairly compensated for you - troubles."

There was a dramatic pause that drowned the room.

"So, what do you say, Doctor Watson?"

"I don't know, Mycroft," John jabbed, "personal physician sounds an awfully lot like personal assistant."

"Titles are rather tedious," Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Call it whatever you like."

"Oh, stop trying to be clever, John," Sherlock berated. "He'll take it." Sherlock paused with couldn't possibly be uncertainty crossing his face. "Right, John?"

John only offered a soft smile to his flatmate before speaking.

"Of course," his sincere smile turned cynical. "Who else would put up with you?"

Sherlock's eyes were beaming, even if his lips didn't show it.

"Very well," Mycroft cleared his throat and turned to leave. "I'll be back when you're released."

Sherlock and John watched him exit until the doctor frowned.

"What?" Sherlock was suddenly concerned.

"Why does it feel like I just took that bribe he offered me when he first met?"

The duo laughed together for a short moment before a voice interrupted.

"If you think you have it bad, my job's on the line if you two don't show up together."

The pair turned toward Lestrade who still stood in the doorway. Sherlock had honestly forgotten his presence.

"I don't believe your position is in jeopardy, Greg," Sherlock replied casually.

"Yeah, but my mental health might be when the boys down at the Yard hear about this."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock scoffed. "They'll be elated when they find out John will always have to be with me from now on. He does so annoyingly enjoy censoring me."

"Well that's true," Greg chuckled and shifted awkwardly. "Well, seeing as  _technically_ speaking there was no 999 call ever made, and  _technically_ speaking, you, Sherlock, never were in possession of or took any illegal substances, and  _technically_ speaking aren't even laying in this hospital bed right now, and technically I'm not even here right now, otherwise quite _literally_ I will lose my job, I should be off to work on some real cases."

"Don't worry," Sherlock smirked, "we'll be there to solve them for you soon enough."

"You better be," Lestrade sighed, "and the two of you do anything like this again, and I'll -"

"Oh, don't make boring, idle threats, detective," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mycroft will throw a tantrum if you take his job from him."

The joke still hung in the air as Sherlock and Greg shared a serious and knowing gaze. With a nod, Lestrade made to leave.

"Hey, Greg."

The detective inspector stopped and cocked his head around at John's voice.

"How's Friday sound to you?"

Greg grinned widely at the question.

"Sounds perfect," Lestrade nodded and then cast a playful glance at Sherlock, "but you're babysitting."

Lestrade easily ignored Sherlock's icy stare.

"I think I can drag him along," John answered, also nonplused by the man's glare.


	6. Joy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TITLE: What Do the Lonely Do at Christmas?
> 
> CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Six/ Joy
> 
> RATING: T (language, content)
> 
> A/N: There are a few more chapters left with a lot of Sherlock/John friendship moments to come, a little surprise guest appearance.
> 
> Please read and review, many thanks.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.

_So much emotion, it's driving me mad_   
_But I'll take my chances with these feelings that I have_   
_And I'll come back to this same corner where we met_   
_And I'll be here every year, every Christmas_

_\- Every Year, Every Christmas by Luther Vandross_

Christmas morning descended upon the residents of 221B Baker Street some days later, not as the black blanket John had expected it to come as. He wasn't leaping out of bed and doing cartwheels about the fault, but he didn't desire to drown underneath his sheets either.

He arose with a mixture of emotions and somehow the image of one of Sherlock's crazed concoctions crossed his mind. Thankfully, it wasn't an analogy of one of his flatmate's more explosive experiments that he was drawing to. All of his feelings, and there were a lot of the, settled in his stomach and heart stably.

He harbored only a fraction of fear, but instead of paralyzing him, it drove him forward.

Anger was barely burdening him as he slipped on his dressing gown; most of his rage at his life and circumstances and the deaths of those he loved having been healthily handled now, or, at least, well on its way to being so.

Sadness, of course, still stung with each step down the stairs, but no longer did it stall his feet.

And there was another.

 _Joy. Yes_.

That one feeling that had escaped his heart's grasp for some time now. It danced around the edge during memories and was shoved through the artery when Sherlock survived his "plan". Now, it wasn't on the edge or being forced upon him. John welcomed the happy warmth. Mary had so loved Christmas. He could hear her gleeful light laughter. Imagine her perfected plans for the day. He could see his parents talking and smiling, and Harry playfully pelting John with shards of wrapping paper. He recalled his first Christmas overseas and the way Bill was brought to tears of joy by a letter from his daughter. He chuckled at the memory of Mike dressing up as Santa and visiting the children's ward of St. Bart's.

The only disgust dampening that glee was with himself for closing himself off from all of this for so long. Too long.

The doctor possessed a trust like never before too. He admired his best friend for his, albeit ridiculously dangerous and stupid, ploy. Any doubt of Sherlock not caring for John was banished from his mind. He trusted those around him, but he also had renewed faith in himself. No matter what his future brought, John Watson could face it, and overcome it.

As the man reached the sitting room, he was flooded with anticipation. Sherlock had refused to tell him anything that had been planned for the holiday. It had been difficult keeping secrets from the older man who practically acted as his shadow, but if anyone could accomplish such a task, it was Sherlock Holmes.

And then, as John rounded the corner, it was surprise that slammed into him, as though he'd missed the threshold and instead headed face first into the wall.

Sherlock sat in his dressing gown, appearing as through he had not used the pajamas that were underneath it. The detective showed no signs of his lack of sleep in his countenance. He sprang out of his chair at John's arrival and the good doctor nearly stumbled backward.

"Ah! John! Good! You're awake. Finally. I was beginning to debate upon methods of rousing you without receiving a fist or bullet for my efforts."

John rolled his eyes and stepped further into the almost unrecognizable room.

John was again reminded of Sherlock's experiments and wondered distantly if some Christmas concoction had exploded in the flat. Garland and lights were tangled together among tinsel, some of it seemingly simply tossed here and there, or more correctly, everywhere. Lights of red, green, gold, white and blue dangled and drooped in all directions.

John was fondly reminded of a child trying to impress his parents with his decoration "skills" and "help".

"Careful," Sherlock warned as John ducked under a strand that spanned the middle of the room. "Some of it isn't necessarily secure. I had to finish everything while you were sleeping, so I had little time and had to make as little noise as possible to not wake you and spoil it."

"You did all this?" John asked in a single breath.

"Yes," Sherlock looked proud and offended in unison, petulantly adding, "Mrs. Hudson refused to be of any assistance after 2:00am and before 5:00am."

"Mrs. Hudson was here?" John glanced about, as if the woman was still somewhere in the shadows.

"Well, someone had to bake the cookies last night and cook breakfast this morning," Sherlock answered flippantly. "Speaking of which, it's going to go cold. Come along, John. You're going to need a good meal. Long day ahead."

John felt as though he was still suffering from shock as he shuffled behind Sherlock into the kitchen. He vaguely felt his jaw slacken at the sight.

All signs of the lab the detective preferred to utilize the kitchen for were amazingly absent. Trays of peanut butter, caramel, gingerbread and frosted cookies and other treats liked the counter tops and were stacked on the microwave and refrigerator as well. Mrs. Hudson had certainly outdone herself.

And then his hungry eyes fell on the table and John nearly leapt forward. Heaps of eggs, bowls of biscuits, a plate of towering toast, a tray covered in bacon and sausages, an expensive array of cheeses and freshly brewed tea, all awaited him.

"How did you -"

"As I said, John. I was about to rouse you. Luckily, you kept closely to your routine./ I was pushing Mrs. Hudson out the door not moments before I heard your floorboards creak." He paused and handed a plate to the dumbstruck doctor. "Now, eat."

John couldn't remember a single, solitary time that the flatmates had any semblance of sitting down to breakfast together like this, just the two of them. Usually Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft or a case was hanging in the background. Tea and toast were John's morning staples, sometimes supplemented with an apple or other piece of fruit. But he usually was also eating while updating his blog, reading the paper, or running out the door after Sherlock. This was something so simple, yet so significant.

Mary had always made John eat a proper breakfast when they lived together, even if he was in a hurry for a shift or a case. It was a bit comical, considering he had been the one hassling Sherlock not long before about proper nutrition.

Sherlock peered up at his friend's sudden snort of laughter. The detective didn't ask about the obvious memory playing behind the doctor's eyes. Sherlock was simply pleased that this one caused him joy, unlike so many of the others. He was surprised at just how much he truly missed the man's smile and childish giggling.

They consumed their feast in shared and comfortable silence, Sherlock occasionally stealing glances at his flatmate.

When almost all of the food had disappeared, Sherlock stood and wordlessly began clearing away the dishes to the sink.

"Let me," John implored, attempting to shield his empty plate from the man's reach.

Sherlock quirked an impatient eyebrow and left his arm extended.

"Do give it to me, John," he sighed, "or I will be forced to take it from you. I doubt Mrs. Hudson enjoys washing broken dishes."

"Mrs. Hudson? You can't ask her to do this on Christmas."

Sherlock used John's distraction to snatch the man's plate.

"I most certainly can and did," Sherlock shot back playfully.

"Can and should are two different things, Sherlock," John argued.

"Precisely," Sherlock nodded. "Now, you can sit there and argue, but you should go and open your gifts and then get ready. Of course, you can choose to stay in your dressing gown when the guests arrive, but I do believe you would say that's not something one should do."

Sherlock smirked as he was rewarded with a signature John Watson scowl and shake of the head before the doctor seemed to realize his flatmate's words.

"Gifts?" John stared incredulously at Sherlock, who was now shooing him into the sitting room. "You never get me, or anyone, gifts. And guests? What guests?"

"Don't ask so many questions, John," Sherlock pushed his flatmate into his chair. "It quite seriously lowers your appearance of any intelligence."

John was about to say something in return when a wrapped object was thrust into his lap. The man looked down at the package suspiciously.

"I am fairly out of practice with sentimental holiday customs, but I do believe this is when you open it."

John glared at Sherlock before his gaze softened.

"I haven't anything for you," he admitted quietly.

"Taking into consideration all the birthday and Christmas gifts you have given me, when I, in return, have had nothing for you, I believe it is far from fair."

John swallowed and slowly began tearing at the blue wrapping. Tentative fingers lifted the lid and fumbled to fold back the tissue paper inside.

Captain John Watson, doctor, soldier, and criminal chaser, didn't care that in that moment tears began licking his face. He didn't try to hide his watering eyes from his audience of one and felt no shame when his head fell into his trembling hands.

Sherlock was stiff as he warily watched his friend.

"I've upset you."

John glanced up, bringing his head out of his arms and blinking through the liquid emotions.

"No," John released something between a laugh and a sob. "I love it, Sherlock. Thank you."

"I can return it, or burn it, if it brings you sorrow," Sherlock narrowed his brow in confusion as his friend's face contradicted his words.

"Would you just shut up and say you're welcome?" Again, John made that odd noise.

"You're welcome," Sherlock spoke slowly, a tad unsure of both himself and his friend.

The wallet in John's hands felt heavy in its near empty state. It wasn't physical weight, though, that gave it its burden.

John's own wallet had been lost in the - accident. He was hardly concerned with its absence at the time as something much more valuable had just been stolen from him. Since then, John had been using an old torn up piece of shredded fake leather from his med school days and borrowed Sherlock's card when he didn't have any bills.

Now, in his hands, was just about the finest quality genuine leather wallet John Watson had ever touched. Nestled in the pockets were several new cards. His eyes skimmed over them. A debit card. Credit card. One for the tube. John's thumb paused over the last piece of plastic, pushing it free and grasping it between quaking fingers.

His military I.D.

Or, at least, an exact copy of his former one from the lost wallet.

John hadn't had any motivation to replace any of these things before. He hadn't even had a credit card before.

_Mycroft._

Sherlock had to have pulled some favors to obtain the military ID and cards, both probably with substantially stocked accounts and limits per one government employee.

Still, these weren't what weighted the wallet. His hand and heart became heavy as his fingers flipped through the inserted plastic protected photographs. The first was on John's parents, taken merely days before his dad died. John felt it was of no use asking just how Sherlock or Mycroft obtained a picture young Harriet Watson had taken. Turning the small page, John was met with a pair of fresh graduates, both still clad in robes and grinning like schoolchildren. A thin Mike Stamford playfully punched John's arm while the future army doctor returned the gesture. The next, held the image of two young soldiers, one arm slung around the other, both smiling despite their dismal surroundings and circumstances. John chuckled at Bill's ridiculous sunglasses and thumbs up motion.

And then the last one.

John hadn't set eyes on a picture of Mary in months and was happily surprised when gazing upon her now brought mostly joy and warmth and love and only a shadow of sorrow somewhere deep down.

It was their wedding. Their first dance.

Sherlock was just outside the edge of the photograph, playing his violin for their first song.

He ran his thumb delicately over her glowing and giggling face. Closing his eyes, he could hear that laugh. He listened to the music and the whispers and whistles from their guests. He could smell her sweet yet sultry scent.

John stared silently at the wallet before bringing his brimming eyes to meet his flatmate. Sherlock despised sentiment, and this gift was that and so much more.

And then there was the second item in the box. The one that had so swifly moved the strong soldier to tears.

Setting aside the wallet almost gingerly, John delicately lifted the framed photograph from the bottom of the box. The wooden rectangle appeared expensive and John was almost afraid to ask the cost. But it wasn't the frame that held the true value. The picture was worth far more to John.

Staring up at him, were the faces of everyone left in the world that he cared about, save Mary. It had been taken during their last year's Christmas party at Mrs. Hudson's unrelenting request. Mycroft and Sherlock stood to the back, both actually managing to portray something closer to a smile than a snarl. Molly was squeezed between Sherlock and Greg, he latter lifting his drink towards the camera. Mrs. Hudson was next in line, her bright beaming face a contrast to all the closed mouths and forced pinched smiles. Standing beside his landlady, John's grin was anything but labored, with his arm around an equally joyful Mary. Harriet Watson wavered on the side of the photograph, noticeably not tucked in with the rest of them. She had popped in as a surprise to John, once again by Mrs. Hudson's stubborn suggestion. Harry was never fond of pictures and her upturned lips looked more stiff than Mycroft's.

It didn't matter.

Some of the smiles may have been forced, but the happiness that flowed through 221B that night wasn't. Everyone had shared a drink and laugh, not including Harry's glass of water. That had been during one of her longer lasting periods of sobriety. John had been proud and switched to nonalcoholic beverages on her behalf for the remainder of the evening. Mary and Harriet got on like old friends, swapping stories that made John's ears go crimson. Even Sherlock and Mycroft chuckled at the embarrassed man's expense. Mycroft had to take an early leave to address an issue with the American president that they "didn't need to know about." Sherlock had given in, once more, and played several Christmas carols on his violin after which Molly and Greg turned the tables and started spilling stories about Sherlock. John, who was more than relieved to have the spotlight off himselfl, even joined in. His amusing anecdotes elicited laughter from the others, and glares from Sherlock. John had ended the evening with a hug to Harry and a kiss under the mistletoe with Mary. Even ever bored Sherlock Holmes admitted to having a pleasant time instead of droning on about how dull and disgustingly sentimental it all was.

John felt as though he had been thrown back in time, 365 days to be exact, as he gazed down at the photograph of his friends and family.

Without a word to Sherlock, John stood, pocketing the wallet, and stepped over to the mantle.

Placing the photograph on the middle of the shelf, John stood back and briefly closed his eyes. He didn't open them when a hand landed on his shoulder.

"Merry Christmas, John," Sherlock's tone was deceptively apathetic, but John heard so much more behind the words.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock."


	7. I Won't Let Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TITLE: What Do the Lonely Do at Christmas?
> 
> CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Seven/I Won't Let Go
> 
> RATING: T (language, content)
> 
> A/N: Final chapter guys! *Tears up* This chapter starts during the party Sherlock has planned. It's paced and feels a bit different than the other chapters possibly. I wanted to give the other characters a little screen time, plus provide a little resolution to the Harry problem, because John deserves it! (Oh, and I sprinkled in some Greg/Molly...irrelevant to the story...but I couldn't help myself) This chapter might seem odd, but I really wanted to get John back with his friends a bit because he is just a people person sometimes. And he has been so alone and isolating himself. And then I threw Clara in there because...well..because I can! So there. Sorry for the inclusion of another whole song. Rascal Flatts' songs break my heart and the 2 songs I used for this story fit just too PERFECTLY not use use in full.
> 
> Please read and review, many thanks.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.

_It's like a storm that cuts a path_   
_It's breaks your will, it feels like that_   
_You think you're lost, but you're not lost_   
_On your own, you're not alone_

_I will stand by you_   
_I will help you through_   
_When you've done all you can do_   
_And you can't cope_

_I will dry your eyes_   
_I will fight your fight_   
_I will hold you tight_   
_And I won't let go_

_It hurts my heart to see you cry_   
_I know it's dark, this part of life_   
_Oh, it finds us all_   
_And we're too small to stop the rain_   
_Oh, but when it rains_

_I will stand by you_   
_I will help you through_   
_When you've done all you can do_   
_And you can't cope_

_I will dry your eyes_   
_I will fight your fight_   
_I will hold you tight_   
_And I won't let you fall_

_Don't be afraid to fall_   
_I'm right here to catch you_   
_I won't let you down_

_It won't get you down_   
_You're gonna make it_   
_Yeah, I know you can make it_

_'Cause I will stand by you_   
_I will help you through_   
_When you've done all you can do_   
_And you can't cope_

_And I will dry your eyes_   
_I will fight your fight_   
_I will hold you tight_   
_And I won't let go_

_Oh, I'm gonna hold you_   
_And I won't let go_   
_Won't let you go_   
_No, I won't_

_\- I Won't Let Go by Rascal Flatts_

The party had lasted nearly the entire day, with no end even remotely in sigh. More secrets were revealed and stories exchanged. Memories of those lost were told with smiles instead of tears. And John swore he saw Greg place his hand more than twice on Molly's waist.

Mycroft and Sherlock were in a heated discussion about some perceived childhood Christmas wrong doing and Mrs. Hudson was bringing out a third tray of sweeties when there came a knock at the door.

John glanced at Sherlock, whose expression was attempting to conceal something undetectable to the doctor.

Everyone else had simply let themselves inside, as their sign said to do so. Knitting his brow together, John approached the door, hesitantly pulling it open.

"Hey, Johnny."

John's posture stiffened, his back taking on the form from his former life as a soldier while his fists curled and uncurled at his sides.

No. Not today. Not here.

He had actually been having a good time. He wasn't going to let her ruin it.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was as hard as his stare.

"Sherlock invited me."

John cast a glaring glance back at his flatmate, who was currently doing his best not to appear to be listening in.

"I thought we weren't speaking," John swallowed.

"Neither were we."

John peered over his sister's shoulder to watch as a caramel colored woman with tight curls ascended the stairs.

"Clara," John breathed the name slowly.

Clara Jackson had been John's best female mate growing up. They were in the same grade together and it was through him that she met Harry. John not only had always held onto hurt over Harry's drinking, but he also could never quite let go of hos his sister had betrayed his childhood friend.

"We're not back together," Harry clarified quickly, "but -"

"We're working on it," Clara finished.

"Right now," Harry twisted her hands together, "Clara, she's - she's my -"

"Sponsor," Clara again stepped in.

"Sponsor?" John echoed.

"Not officially," Harry amended anxiously. "They'd never really allow that. But going to those meetings never helped me. And you 'n me, we're too different. We don't get on, and that's okay. We're still family 'n I love you. I know this is your family now," she gestured at the flat's occupants that were all doing a good impression of a room full of people not eavesdropping, "but I didn't want to keep disappointing my baby brother."

Whatever anger or resentment John had been harboring when he first opened the door was now somehow suddenly nowhere to be found. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and wrapped strong arms around his sister's slightly shaking shoulders.

"Harry, you'll always be my sister, my family. No matter what." John leaned back and cleared his throat. "Maybe I could've been there for you more."

"No, I shoulda' been there for you," Harry swallowed a sad smile.

"Yes, yes, well, now you'll both be there for each other. How nice."

John folded his arms and fixed his flatmate, who had somehow silently slunk over to stand behind them, with a firm look.

"Considering the two of you will be seeing more of each other now," the detective finished.

"Wait, what?" John glanced from his sister to Sherlock.

"Clara - isn't my only - sponsor," Harry released each word slowly, her eyes trailing over to Sherlock.

"What?" John couldn't quite tell if he was gasping or laughing. "Him?"

"Well I do have some previous - experience - with certain - addictions."

John didn't miss how Mycroft frowned and Lestrade purposefully pretended not to be hearing any conversation about illegal activity.

"And, you what? Volunteered? You? You don't help people, Sherlock."

"What do you call what I do for a living?" Sherlock pouted.

"Uh, ego boosting? Shameless showing off? Keeping yourself from boredom? Risking your life just to -"

"Yes, yes. Thank you." Sherlock waved his hand. "I simply - had words - with your sister recently regarding her - habits."

"Had words?" John bristled and then barked. "You threatened her? He threatened you?"

"As much as I intended to do so," Sherlock signed, "Harriet was already seeking help from Clara here before I paid her a visit. Knowing personally the effects of such a –  _situation_ , taking into consideration her previous relapses and factoring in her physical wellbeing tying into your emotional wellbeing – which I have a vested interest in seeing as you are my flatmate and blogger – I thought it would be beneficial to offer my services. Harriet will come here on a regular basis, thus, as they say, killing two birds with one stone. You will see your sister more and I will be able to provide my unique and unfailing support and guidance. She will also be unable to lie to me or conceal any relapse from me. It was logical."

John stood, stunned into silence. Self-proclaimed sociopath Sherlock Holmes was going to be his sister's sponsor. Somehow he felt he had stepped into some alternate world.

"Now, before someone gets weepy, can we move onto a less sentimentally stimulated conversation or are you not planning on even inviting your sister and her guest inside?"

John had forgotten that Harry and Clara were both still in the hallway and ushered them inside, taking their coats, still a bit dumbfounded.

The topic was politely, yet promptly, dropped and the party continued without problem. Clara had plenty of ear-reddening stories to add about John from their youth. Mycroft excused himself to attend a meeting and Sherlock interrupted Greg asking Molly something about dinner with questions on the newest case. Mrs. Hudson drained Molly dry with inquiries of if she had a boyfriend, when she was going to get a boyfriend –  _"or girlfriend, it doesn't matter, dear"_  – and why she had yet to get a boyfriend. Greg seemed to be suddenly interested in the wall during this conversation, but John could almost see his ears reaching out to hear every word.

It was during their gift exchange that John had reenacted their childhood, crunching up the packing paper and chucking them like baseballs at his sister's head. Harry readily responded in kind, accidentally hitting Clara in the eye in the process. When Clara joined in and one of her misfires landed in Molly's drink, causing some to splash on Greg's tie – they  _were_ standing awfully close – it seemed everyone became entangled in the excitement.

It was during this little battle and bout of boisterous laughter that John felt himself being tugged up off the ground and into the hallway.

Sherlock stood across from him, both of their coats draped over his arms.

"Sherlock? What – what's going on?"

"Put this on, and quickly. It's getting dark."

"What? We can't just leave our own party." John protested.

"Oh, please," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I used to sneak away whenever Mummy threw me a birthday party."

"Bit different," John argued.

"I informed Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock thrust John's coat into the man's chest. "We'll be back before Lestrade asks Molly out and just in time to see Clara sneak your dear sister a kiss. Now, come along."

John huffed as he pulled on his jacket and descended the steps after his practically sprinting friend. Sherlock hailed a cab and had given the stranger directions before John even got in.

"And where are we going?" John sighed, knowing his question was most likely futile.

"It's called a surprise for a reason, John," Sherlock reminded him impatiently.

There were several staggering moments of silence before John cleared his throat. Except it was Sherlock who spoke first.

"What I said before," the detective danced around his words carefully, "back in the flat. When Harriet – when I sad you are my flatmate and blogger."

"And your nanny," John chuckled.

"Assistant," Sherlock corrected.

"Partner," John revised readily.

"More like,  _personal_  assistant then," Sherlock snubbed.

"I'll give you something personal in a minute, Sherlock," John threatened playfully.

Another hesitant hush.

"There –" Sherlock started and stopped. "You are something else, too, John. You are my – friend."

Both men dutifully avoided eye contact then.

"Thanks, Sherlock," John nodded with a swallow. "You – you too. Of course, you too."

Nothing else was spoken until nearly twenty minutes later and John began recognizing their route.

"Sherlock –"

"John, you are my friend," Sherlock cut him off. "Everyone at the flat is your friend.  _She_ was your wife. You went too long without seeing your friends. Now you have seen them. You've gone too long without seeing her. You should see her today."

_On Christmas. Her favorite day of the year, apart from your anniversary._

Sherlock didn't say those things though. His statement had been factual, logical. The rest was sentiment. Yet somehow he thought John still heard them.

The cab pulled up to the cemetery and neither man made to exit the car.

"I – am here," Sherlock stated unsurely, wondering if it was the correct words to comfort his heavily breathing best friend.

They seemed to work as John nodded resolutely, releasing a punch of air as he did so. With a small sound in his throat and a squaring of his shoulders, John opened his door and began the old familiar walk.

Sherlock handed the driver money and ordered him to wait here for them before following his friend.

Mary had been buried in the plot previously occupied by Sherlock's empty grave. There was no family for her to be placed next to. A new headstone had been erected, all at Mycroft's insistence and expense. It was a beautiful black marble, simple, yet beautiful, like Mary.

John stood stiffly in front of his wife's name for quite some time without words or movement. Sherlock lingered behind, granting the man his moment.

"Would you like to see her, John?"

Sherlock's quiet question was answered with a short nod from the silent soldier. The detective delivered a detailed description of Mary's appearance to begin as John let his eyelids fall closed. Sherlock then cataloged her scent, her varying laughs and their meanings, her way of speaking volumes with just her eyes, just like John. He carried on about her childhood and the wedding. He listed her habits, both good and bad. Her likes, dislikes, hobbies, passions, dreams, the way her voice changed when talking about John. How she preferred the modest to the grandiose. The way her nose crinkled when she smiled or was up to something, or both. The colorful language that only ever spilled past her lips when she was driving. Her partiality to sour, over sweet.

Sherlock made it a point to go far beyond any of the deductions he had previously made for his friend since his wife's passing. He was looking at Mary not only through his own observant eyes, but through John's.

It wasn't long before John could see Mary standing in front of him. Could feel her. Smell her.

He hadn't allowed himself to do this in so long. Sherlock was right. Too long.

John extended his arm, as if to touch her. His hand fell upon the slab of rock and the man was pulled back to reality.

Again, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Merry Christmas, Mary," Sherlock's voice sounded softly behind him. "Merry Christmas, John."

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock."


End file.
